


Bitten

by Torchiclove



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Gen, just a fucking werewolf au i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 18:20:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19469533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Torchiclove/pseuds/Torchiclove
Summary: The mighty nein met under guise of moonlight.





	Bitten

Freedom is sought in the strangest of ways.

For Beauregard, freedom came as gnashing fangs and a piercing pain, something that went so far deep beneath the skin, a disease that set her blood on fire.

The silver that pierced her ears started to burn almost immediately.

It was not until the full moon that she danced in all her revelry, howling newfound freedom into an empty sky. She made sure to be seen, cocksure and full of spite, rippling into a beast under moonlight in the front yard of her father’s home.

She relished the fear in his eyes as he watched his only daughter grow fangs and fur.

She was a great loping thing, running with newfound speed as alarm spread through the city, as mention of a _werewolf_ loose in the streets ran like blood through the ears of the townsfolk. Whispers were spread, _the Lionett’s daughter_ , gossip and rumor and hushed fear.

Beauregard cared not for it, for her new ears pricked not at the sound of words but at the crooning of the night, the lark that sang in the sweet distance and the mountains that knew her name better than any man alive. 

The sting of the guard’s bolts barely grazed her thickened hide as she fled not in fear but in joyous exaltation, found her new destiny in the ragged breath of sprinting on four powerful legs, threw her head back in that Zemnian field and howled her delight to the stars.

Morning came, and with it, realization.

No longer caressed by the pale moonlight, her form had given up it’s newfound power, reverting once more to its fragile state, sore limbs and aching muscles and skin burning under the heat of day.

Beauregard found herself far from home. She opened her mouth and tasted the sweet air, and the spark of glee that shot through her was more than she could name.

On her travels, sometimes a wanderer in flesh and others a great and prowling hunter, she finds a man who is not a man and who smells of smoke and singed hair.

He thinks himself a man, she believes, but it takes not a moment to see the great coiled beast that lies within, chained and shuttered beneath his chest. She is drawn to it, she thinks, out of some kind of instinct? She finds him and tries to explain all that is right about slavering jaws and rippling muscle, of an exuberant howl to the waiting mother of the sky. 

He does not want to hear her many words and theories on why it is all too natural to hunt and kill and eat. He claims to have a curse in his blood and fire on his breath, and these two, Beauregard believes, came not independent of the other.

But he doesn’t leave. He stays with Beauregard and she coaxes him into finding his fur in that gentle night, when the moon is pale and half its glory, and she sees that familiar glint of _freedom_ in Caleb’s eyes.

Their pack grows one by one from there. A goblin who is not a goblin, and is now neither of the things she believed herself to be, bitten and given new life.

A tiefling who smiles and sings and finds it oh-so-fun to be given new forms to dance and play in the cover of night.

A half-orc who has known no family and no home in his life, brought at last to be just what he is, one with the pack that he calls his home.

And the circus.

They find the remnants of it, some calamity casting wayward souls and into the world on their own, and two travelers sticking to each other through it all.

Beau smells it on her before she even sees her. The wolf that lives within, not shuttered like Caleb’s once was, but hidden. Let go only in those secret moments, kept a tender hush in the deep forest.

Yasha is her name and there are flowers in her hair and _teeth_ in her soul.

Beau sees it in her eyes as they approach that she recognizes just what they are, though her purple friend seems none the wiser. But he’s willing to try. Oh, so willing to try. 

His new bite is lost in the myriad of his scars. Already a child of the moonweaver, now given a new way to worship she who casts her pallid light.

And she, hidden wolf longing to be free, given new life amongst her pack, roving the fields of the empire and keeping well to themselves. 

She speaks stories that are some of the few Beau cares to hear, stories of a pack like theirs but larger, in the far off wastes of lands unimaginable. She speaks soft, even in growls, and she carries a gentle sadness.

They howl for her in the pale moonlight, and carry her gentle sadness.

**Author's Note:**

> I was just feeling werewolves, what can I say? I have travis willingham disease


End file.
